


Like Teeth Around Pavement

by a_static_world



Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Assassin Jaskier | Dandelion, BAMF Jaskier | Dandelion, Falling In Love, Feral Jaskier | Dandelion, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia Has Feelings, I Wrote This Instead of Sleeping, Insecure Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, M/M, Mild Gore, Minor Violence, POV Alternating, POV Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, POV Jaskier | Dandelion, Soulmates, Title From a Bastille Song, Witchers Have Feelings (The Witcher), ah ha ha ha, crime boss jaskier uwu, for real, updates regularly
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-04
Updated: 2020-07-15
Packaged: 2021-03-04 19:40:03
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 5,960
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25061740
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/a_static_world/pseuds/a_static_world
Summary: Geralt, of course, knew of the Viper. Everyone did; he spread like a venom through the Continent, torturing and killing for the richest of the rich. Some said he’d been a witcher, and had defected before the schools were ransacked. Others speculated that he held the title of count, a noble who’d been so twisted by his upbringing that he reveled in doing their dirty work. There were countless stories: he was a man, a woman, a child, an adult, a wraith, a faerie, a human. In short, he was fear itself; nobody knew he’d come until he’d gone, leaving another bloody stain on the Continent in his wake.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 30
Kudos: 214





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> hi lovelies!! miild violence in this chapter, so if that's icky for you don't feel beholden to read!!

Geralt, of course, knew of the Viper. Everyone did; he spread like a venom through the Continent, torturing and killing for the richest of the rich. Some said he’d been a witcher, and had defected before the schools were ransacked. Others speculated that he held the title of count, a noble who’d been so twisted by his upbringing that he reveled in doing their dirty work. There were countless stories: he was a man, a woman, a child, an adult, a wraith, a faerie, a human. In short, he was fear itself; nobody knew he’d come until he’d gone, leaving another bloody stain on the Continent in his wake.

Geralt knew little more than the rabble, but that little was enough to realize that the Viper meant business. Vesemir told him the Viper’s name had been Julian, the son of the Viscount of Lettenhove. He’d apparently killed both his parents at 17, left the city in shambles, and began hiring himself out as a whore and a killer. Now, at around 27, the Viper made an empire out of his own misfortune, employing five of the most wanted ex-witchers and mercenaries the Continent over. He still handled the biggest jobs himself, Geralt knew. 

He knew, of course, because he was currently chained to the dungeon wall of Pankratz Manor, surrounded by a veritable armory of weapons. 

He’d gotten himself into this. Angering the mage of Aedirn’s king had been a stupid mistake, more befitting of a wolf-pup than a seasoned witcher bordering on a century and a half. She’d insulted his work, however, sniffing haughtily at the decapitated striga he threw at her feet. In hindsight, snarling “Like  _ you _ could have done better” had not been in his best interests. The king flew into a rage, in such a state that Geralt wondered if he and the mage harbored some… unprofessional relations, between them. He, of course, fled, making it all the way to Haggi before someone slipped something in his soup.

The next several days he spent in a state of semi-unconsciousness, being woken roughly what must’ve been once a day to a man pouring broth and water down his throat. The food was always laced, and Geralt had been blindfolded and bound. He was, for the first time since he became a witcher, totally and utterly helpless. Against his better judgement, however, he felt intrigued. Vesemir’s warnings of  _ don’t cross the Viper _ mingled with the strange dreams the drugs gave him, blending and warping into something utterly intolerable and yet, somehow, enticing. 

He’d woken up here, sweating and shaking as the poisons worked their way out of his system, chained to the wall of the now-infamous Pankratz Manor. Next to him lay a bucket of water and a ladle, a plate of bread. Geralt, foolishly, ate and drank his fill before his head cleared and oh,  _ fuck. _ He was in the Viper’s nest, and anything and everything could be poisoned. Several hours of low-level panic later, however, nothing had come of the food except a need to piss. 

_ Why bother feeding me when he’ll kill me anyway? _

Geralt winced as screaming started in the next room. His enhanced hearing meant he picked up on every footstep, every scamper of vermin, and every plea from next door. He strained forward, listening to the crooning undertone that cut over the sobbing. 

“Unfortunately, darling, it seems there’s no room for you here.”

“No, no, no,  _ please, _ I’ll do anything-”

The voice cut off, ragged screams accompanying a sickening crunch. Melitele above, what kind of  _ monster _ was this man? Was it not enough to simply kill?

The sob-screams stopped as abruptly as they started, a faint scent of blood and death working its way into Geralt’s nostrils. The Viper (or who Geralt assumed to be the Viper) spoke again, words seeming deliberately loud enough for the witcher to hear.

“Your body is a message, now, dear. Send my regards to hell.”

For the first time in many years, Geralt felt a thrill of fear stroke cold fingers down his spine. 

The Viper didn’t come for him the next day, or the next. Geralt learned that his breakfast was not spiked, but his dinner was, ensuring a deep and dreamless slumber while his food and water were replaced and his cell swept out. His chains extended far enough for him to stand and take two steps in each direction, but anchored solidly in the wall and didn’t yield to his efforts. There had been enough brushes with the law in his career that Geralt knew he was being played with. A normal man would’ve been pissing himself, anticipation and fear gnawing at his brain until he simply gave the Viper whatever it is he wanted. Unfortunately, what the Viper wanted from Geralt was his life, and when the man stepped into his room for the first time, Geralt felt nothing but curiosity, the fear of before utterly forgotten.

The Viper looked like everything and nothing he’d imagined. Taller than he’d thought, perhaps even of a height with Geralt, all lithe muscle under his leathers. Brown curls framed a boyish face, the glint of cruelty in his eyes ruining any thoughts of innocence. Long, calloused fingers, lazily twirling a blade. In all honesty, the man was attractive. He oozed charisma and magnetism, lethal in the way that hides behind charm and small talk. Geralt shuddered. Many had entered this...place. None returned. This man was the reason why.

“I can hear your pulse  _ racing _ from here. Heartbeat in your mouth yet?”

Impossible; the mutagens slowed his heartbeat to the point of near-stop. It held steady as it always did.

“Hmm.”

“Ooh, not feeling talkative, are we? I can fix that.” 

“Lord Jaskier-”

The Viper’s head whipped around, blade flicking into his hands on instinct before he registered the leather-clad woman standing in the doorway. A servant, Geralt guessed, with an armful of towels and a small green bottle. 

“Thank you, Agatha. Take the rest of the night off.”

The woman nodded, depositing the items in the Viper’s arms without a hint of fear. She smiled, dipping her head before hurrying down the corridor and out of sight. It seemed sweet, almost. He straightened as the Viper (Jaskier?) turned back around, all the laxness of before replaced with steel. He fondled the small bottle, twisting it back and forth. In the low lamplight, Geralt could see a thick, dark substance within.

“When I was a boy, my father-may his soul rest in peace-just  _ loved _ to test my limits. ‘One cannot be a leader without strength,’ he’d say, and tip small doses of poison into my wine. Other children got honey and water in their goblets; I got belladonna and henbane.”

“Sounds fun. ‘S’that why you kill people, now? Daddy gave you a power complex?”

Faster than he thought possible, Jaskier (as Geralt had decided to think of him) crouched in front of his shackled body, knife tickling the underside of his chin. The cool metal traced a path up his jaw, around his ear. Geralt suppressed a shiver, biting down on his tongue as Jaskier tilted his chin up. 

“Believe it or not, we have a common enemy here. Aedirn’s king is no friend of mine; you are here simply to keep a business relationship alive.  _ You  _ have the power and control, darling. Fall upon your knees, crawl, beg, plead, and I may prove to be merciful.”

_ Melitele _ , it’s like this man was trying to kill him. Well, he  _ was _ , but all he’d done was croon at Geralt, trace a knife around his face. Really, he’d only done what Geralt had paid every whore he’d come across to do. The man could’ve been a bard, with that voice. 

“I will not beg for what is not yours to give.”

“Oho! What a  _ fighter _ you are. How’s this? You’ve been granted three wishes. Say goodbye to your mother-” Jaskier slipped the knife over his forearm, and Geralt hissed as a red line welled up. “Your father,”  _ slice _ , “Your son.”  _ slice _ . 

“Joke’s on you, snake. I’ve got none of those.”

“Mm. You don’t now.”

_ What the fuck _ . There was something intriguing about this man, something that made Geralt want to dig deeper. Unfortunately, Jaskier chose just that moment to empty the green bottle over the cuts he’d just made, and the pain surpassed everything Geralt had ever experienced. At once searing and blinding, like a white-hot knife that happened to be made of ice and also fire-ants had been applied to his arm. He didn’t scream; the instinct to react vocally to pain had been drummed out of him during his witcher trials. 

He did, however, writhe, moving to scrape the goo off his arm only for his shackles to yank him back.  _ Breathe _ . In, out, inhale and exhale through the pain. Remove yourself from your body. Pain is only physical. He was aware of Jaskier studying him, still crouched, cornflower-blue eyes gauging his reaction. 

“Mmm, very good. I mixed that one myself, do you like it?”

“Bastard.”

“Oh, come now, Geralt. Don’t pin it all on me.  _ You’re  _ the one who pissed off the king of Aedirn. Take these towels. A guard will be by shortly to clean you up. I’ll see you tomorrow, witcher.”

_ There’s something sad in his eyes _ , Geralt thought, slipping into unconsciousness as his cell door swung back open. 


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Julian had fled, changed his name, but his story preceded him in every deserted servant, every gossipy neighbor putting in their angle before spreading it around. Seventeen, he’d been. Full of dreams: Jaskier, the wandering troubadour, searching for his muse.   
> What nonsense.

Jaskier hated himself. Hated the way he hurt people, the way he almost revelled in it. The way it made him feel like his father, the one thing he’d sworn to never become. He’d tried not to be, after he killed his parents. Killed his father, rather, who’d just killed his mother. He still remembered the blood, hands turning tacky as the air cooled the warmth of all that red. He’d fled, changed his name, but his story preceded him in every deserted servant, every gossipy neighbor putting in their angle before spreading it around. Seventeen, he’d been. Full of dreams: Jaskier, the wandering troubadour, searching for his muse. 

What nonsense. Bards got paid jack shit, and he’d quickly found his niche elsewhere. Started when a duke of a small village propositioned him, hands sliding under his shirt, breath hot and rancid against his ear.  _ Kill my wife’s lover _ , he’d said, and Jaskier cried. The lover had died.

So had the duke. 

He dealt mostly in small matters; witchers got paid to hunt monsters of the non-human kind, and Jaskier got paid to hunt monsters of the rather more mortal kind. Mistresses, jealous husbands, infertile wives; his bread and butter. Often, he’d try to help them escape, visiting local morgues for hands and fingers as evidence. It bit him in the ass, more times than not, and he had the scars to prove it. Over time, he gained repute, and hired five more ousted noble children, two of whom were ex-witchers. They were his network; he dealt with the heavy political contenders, the kings and barons with land grudges and bastard children to take care of. All the actual killing fell to him; the children, as he’d come to think of them, didn’t need more blood in their lives. They smuggled out abused wives, husbands, and children, dealing with petty needs in a violent facade for the good deeds. 

Nobody could know; the operation required utmost secrecy. He could deal with killing traitors for kings, offing a political prisoner or two. Jaskier was more than happy, really, if it meant his “assassins” could continue their jobs. He let the Continent slander him, let people whisper his name, call him the Viper as if he’d bite them from across the tavern. He allowed himself to steep in the attention, flashing grins and blades at people who crossed him, using his old family home as his personal torture chamber. 

And he  _ fucking hated it _ .

This witcher, though, intrigued him. He had barely reacted to his poisons, and seemed strangely interested in his threats. He was attractive as hell, Jaskier wasn’t too proud to admit that. Even dirty and disoriented, he’d put up a fight. Sexy of him, really, to even bother replying to Jaskier.  _ Daddy gave you a power complex? _ Mmm, he had no idea. Jaskier felt the witcher had enjoyed their little… dynamic, to an extent. 

Oh, that felt gross. Geralt (Gerald? Gary?) was  _ chained up in his basement _ . Jaskier  _ literally  _ just subjected him to what was probably the worst pain he’d ever felt. He fully planned on letting the witcher go, but the man couldn’t possibly know that, and it felt predatory and  _ wrong _ to even think about fucking him in this situation. Maybe another time, another place. Another  _ him, _ one who was a successful bard and composer, who’d attended university instead of selling himself out for coin. He sensed that he would follow the witcher to the ends of the earth, given the chance, had they met in any other circumstance. 

Jaskier started as he bumped against his doorframe. He’d walked himself right to his bedroom, on the other side of the manor from where he and his parents used to sleep. It was an old guest room, seldom used before Jaskier and his crew had moved back in. Currently, only he and Agatha resided there. She would leave tomorrow, headed to weed out any petty troubles in, ironically, Aedirn. Jax, Szymon, Hanna, and Alla were all out, and all had checked in for their weekly correspondence. Ravens- dead smart, and useful for fast communication. They were required back at the manor once a month, for a debrief and a family dinner, but other than that, Jaskier left them to their own devices.

He sighed, unlocking his door and shedding his leathers as soon as it shut behind him. Salve on his bad knee (wrecked by his father at 15), candles lit, slide into bed with his journal. He wrote every night; days he’d killed someone were written in red, and the red pages gradually decreased as he flicked through. His last red-pen night was from three days ago. He hadn’t  _ wanted _ to kill the man, of course, but Earl Heraldson specifically requested a...message, to be sent, and Jaskier found himself in no place to refuse him. The man had died as cleanly as Jaskier could make it, and he shuddered to think of the witcher hearing what he’d said after the man had died.

_ Send my regards to hell _ . 

Because, more like than not, that’s where Jaskier would end up, if such a place existed. Too much red in his ledger, on his hands, to go anywhere else. He wrote the day’s events in black ink, expelling his fears and gratitudes and feelings onto the page. A lute sat in the corner of his room, dusty and unused. Music used to be his catharsis, before red-days and black-days. He’d put down the lute one day in favor of a journal, and never looked back. It was too beautiful an instrument, too pristine for his scarred and calloused hands. 

He set the journal down, satisfied with his account, and lay back against his pillows. He closed his eyes, and yellow-gold ones seared into his head. Jaskier jumped up, poured a glass of water, and still the witcher’s eyes haunted him. They’d been fearless, yes, and sad, and  _ beautiful.  _ Something in them screamed  _ I know you _ .  _ We’re not so different, you and I _ . 

Except they were. Geralt may be hated, but he provided the common people with a necessary service. Jaskier did noblemen’s dirty work to make a living. Sylvia, his housekeeper, had a sleeping draught in his bedside table, and he took what was possibly too much before half sitting, half falling into bed. His dreams that night were filled with buttercups and cornflowers and a river of poison that dragged him down, down, deeper and deeper until he woke to sweat-soaked sheets and a racing heart.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> wuhbuh hellooooo there  
> chappy two! thank you all for your kind words on the last chapter <3


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Geralt woke to complete darkness, all-too-suddenly aware of another presence in his cell. He’d been dreaming about the Viper and his sad eyes, laughter ringing bright and sharp in his ears. He squinted against the lamp that flared to life, revealing Jaskier himself, propped in the open doorway. _What the fuck._

Geralt woke to complete darkness, all-too-suddenly aware of another presence in his cell. He’d been dreaming about the Viper and his sad eyes, laughter ringing bright and sharp in his ears. He squinted against the lamp that flared to life, revealing Jaskier himself, propped in the open doorway.  _ What the fuck _ .

“What the fuck?”

“Eloquent, my dear witcher. I, unfortunately, cannot keep you, which, fortunately for you, means you are free to go. Your horse is stabled outside, and I recommend you disappear for a good long while.”

Oh, yeah, huh. The shackles around his ankles and wrists were gone, and he rubbed over the sore spots before standing. Jaskier smirked as he stumbled, blood rushing to all the empty places.  _ All  _ of them. Geralt shifted uncomfortably, meeting Jaskier’s eyes. Melitele, they were almost  _ too _ blue, washing the color out of everything else in the room. Not that there was much except grey, but, still. Geralt’s not a fucking poet. 

“Thank you.”

“Oh, don’t thank me, darling. Forgive me if this is too forward, but-”

Jaskier’s lips were on his and  _ Jaskier was kissing him _ and Geralt twenty-four hours ago would have killed the man on the spot but Geralt now melted into it. Kissing Jaskier felt like someone had knocked the wind out of him, placed a well-aimed punch to his diaphragm and left him heaving on the ground. Like wrapping his teeth around pavement, a shock to his system. In a good way. It ended too quickly, Jaskier disappearing down the darkened corridor, and the same girl who’d brought Jaskier the towels led Geralt outside and to Roach. His arm had, as promised, been bandaged, white cloth stark against the brown of his mare. 

Okay. He was in Lettenhove. Jaskier would surely tell the King of Aedirn Geralt had died, but without proof suspicions would be high. He could always tuck tail and head to Kaer Morhen early; nobody but Vesemir would be there yet, and Kaedwen held enough small towns away from the Aedirnian border to maybe finish out the season. Kaedwen, then. Okay, good. A plan. It would take extra effort to skirt Aedirn on his way back, but. Better careful than dead, especially with the promise of finding Jaskier again fresh on his lips. 

Jaskier. In- what had it been? Four days, if that-Geralt had quite literally fallen to his knees for the deadliest man on the continent. Typical, if not completely  _ batshit  _ insane. He could practically hear Eskel teasing him from here, something about a murder-boner and a knife kink. Geralt shook his head, realizing he’d been clenching Roach’s lead so hard the seams on the leather had imprinted into the palm of his hand. He bounced as stoically as one could, sat on a cantering horse and praying that Aedirn would accept Jaskier’s story. 

He hoped, secretly, that the wounds on his arm would scar. Not in a weird, gross way. No, he was very much pissed at Jaskier for cutting him in the first place, even more so for the potion he’d applied, but still. Scars tell stories, and if whatever powers that be saw fit for their paths to never cross again, he’d want the reminder with him. Mother above, three nights with a man whose voice held a hint of music, and Geralt had become a fucking poet.  _ This is madness _ , he thought, and drove Roach further into the night. 

Geralt grew increasingly adept at blocking Jaskier out during the day. He’d made it to Kaedwen, taking the long route around Aedirn, and resumed hunting in small, backwater villages that neither knew nor cared to find out his name. It cleared his head, chopping monsters to bits. Catharsis, as Swallow and Kiss flowed thick in his veins and blocked out any thoughts except  _ survive _ . Geralt preferred being reduced to his base instincts; feelings were great and all, but one couldn’t exactly fixate on kissing someone you’d met once while six ghouls are hounding your ass. 

At night, however, Jaskier took over his mind in a wash of cornflower-blue. He dreamed of the smell of leather, red ink dripping off a page, of heartache and self-loathing so strong he woke in a sweat, bedroll twisted around his legs. Witchers weren’t supposed to feel, weren’t supposed to ache so hard for people their chests hurt, but something had always been off about Geralt. Maybe in different circumstances he would’ve tried to push it down, ignore the dreams and the feelings and the tugging in his gut that always seemed to pull back towards Kerack. In these circumstances, however, Geralt allowed himself to wallow. Privately, in the midst of trees and loam and Mother only knows what else, of course, but this was still a relatively new thing. The absolute  _ last _ thing he wanted was to show up to Kaer Morhen a jittery, confused,  _ feeling _ mess. Better to work things out here, between jobs, speaking his thoughts aloud to Roach as if she understood, than be forced to keep it in when he didn’t fully understand it. 

He almost got the sense that Jaskier dreamed about him, too. Flashes of campfire, the smell of horse and decaying leaves, maybe, the bitter taste of Willow thick on the other man’s tongue. Little as Geralt believed in Destiny, there was something odd and rather  _ deep _ to whatever he and Jaskier experienced. He was, consistently and rather irritatingly, of half a mind to just turn Roach around and head back to Lettenhove as fast as she’d take him. The days had progressively gotten colder, however, and to ride back to the coast at the beginning of winter was close to suicide, even for him. Kaer Morhen seemed the safer option; he could chase his dreams (literally, eugh) come springtime. 

He was greeted with open arms and a warm bed at the keep, as he’d been every winter for a century. Each year the once-sprawling fortress dwindled in size, the lone few witchers who stayed on year-round unable to keep up maintenance. None of them really minded; there was a kitchen and a hearth and enough bedrooms for whoever showed up and it was a  _ hell _ of a lot better than wintering anywhere else. Geralt would never admit it, and neither would his brothers, but they missed each other, missed the camaraderie that can only come from shared trauma. 

The dreams didn’t stop, in Kaer Morhen, but they did... dim, slightly. Red ink turned to black, and sometimes, if Geralt tried, he could catch snatches of what sounded like a lute.

The wounds on his arm scarred.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> they kith!!!!! it happen!!! i am so tired you guys oh my god. thank you for all the sweet words!!


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Suddenly Jaskier found himself terribly, deeply alone. He rattled around the manor, spent days scrubbing the dungeons on his hands and knees, avoiding his rooms until the last minute possible.

Agatha left the morning after Geralt, and suddenly Jaskier found himself terribly, deeply alone. He rattled around the manor, spent days scrubbing the dungeons on his hands and knees, avoiding his rooms until the last minute possible. Sylvia often roused him in the middle of the night, helping him off the sofa or the kitchen floor or wherever his body had chosen to give out. His dreams were muddy and confused, flashes of steel and black blood accompanied by the feeling of horsehair and the scent of old stone. What it meant, Jaskier had no fucking clue. There was a sense of longing, though, accompanied by bright amber-yellow eyes and a bitterness on his tongue. 

Sleeping became a dreaded pastime, every blink of his too-heavy eyelids bringing forth visions of silver hair and old scars. Maybe his fear of mortality was finally catching up with him, the rapidly-approaching, much-dreaded  _ thirty _ only a few years away. Or maybe he was just fucking tired of having cryptic dreams. 

Jaskier asked Sylvia for another sleeping draught, swallowing the entire thing, to her protestation and general horror. That was just Sylvia, though; the woman could get a bloodstain out of  _ anything _ and not question where it came from, but goddess forbid Jaskier put his own body in a scant bit of harm. The potion tasted vaguely of cinnamon and lemons, and he felt so immediately woozy that he was forced to sleep in his own bedroom. Jaskier barely got the covers over his still-leather-clad body before he passed out. His dreams, though present, were lessened in intensity, and for the first time since Geralt left he got a full night of sleep. 

He woke the next morning with a burning desire to pick his lute back up. 

Jaskier, being Jaskier, avoided the thing for several days (weeks) after, continuing to take sleeping draughts and ignoring the swirl of lyrics in his newly-unfogged mind. He picked up small jobs, torturing and releasing a couple enemies of state before even that became boring. His crew all made the check-in for the next month, and family dinner (and the resulting nap pile) were as jovial and enjoyable as ever, though Jax had picked up a nasty new scar and Hanna had, apparently, nearly lost a finger. They filtered out of the manor over the next week, off to do good, and Jaskier once again remained with only his lute, his housekeeper, and his memories. 

Geralt was never far from his mind. In fact, the man was probably half the reason Jaskier felt the itch to compose again. A poetic melancholy, paired with an  _ incredible _ streak of bastardry, seemed to hang over the witcher. Jaskier, in all honesty, didn’t know why he’d kissed him. Well, he did. Something about the inevitability of never seeing him again, the fact that he’d matched Jaskier’s threats with banter, and, Melitele, he didn’t fucking know.  _ Something _ . Jaskier believed everyone had their paths planned out for them; call it Destiny, Chaos, fucking whatever. He hadn’t planned on falling for a witcher being in his path, but. Here he was.

He woke one morning to find that Sylvia, goddess bless her, had dusted off the lute. Jaskier, acting on pure instinct, nearly threw the thing through a gods-damned window. He was  _ fine. _ Bottling things up had always worked for him; expression of emotions had not been, ah,  _ encouraged _ , when he was a child, and the tendency to be wound like a fucking spring stuck ever since. Journaling worked just fine for Jaskier de Lettenhove, thank you very much. 

It took him two more days to pick up the instrument, and another day to even play it. Miraculously, it wasn’t too far out of tune, and Jaskier full-body shivered at the first chord. From there, instinct kicked in, and he found himself almost possessed, working out all the chords and rhythms that had built up over the years. He didn’t even bother with words, at first, too caught up in  _ feeling _ to attempt lyrics along with playing. Jaskier found his hands were calloused, but in all the wrong places, and he relished the raw ache that began in his fingertips. A little grounding pain never hurt anyone, honestly. 

Jaskier, over the next few days, played his lute until his fingers bled and Sylvia chastised him. He occasionally mumbled strings of words, things like  _ I’m weak, my love, and I am wanting _ , and  _ I will wait, and hope _ . Silly, nonsense lyrics, just filler words to match the cadence of whatever he was playing. Silly, nonsense lyrics that evoked amber eyes, warm skin, lips bitten bright red and burning. Things he wanted and couldn’t have, because he hoped to Melitele the witcher had gotten the fuck out of Kerack and would lie low for the foreseeable future. Their paths had intersected; that would have to be enough for Jaskier.

The rest of the winter passed in a similar fashion; his crew popped in and out of the manor, continuing their work through the season. Jaskier picked up his lute more and more often, managing to write and fine-tune a few songs. Mostly he free-played, striking chords that sent chills down his spine and lit fires in his chest. His fingers bled and blistered and by spring, the blisters had turned to callouses. It seemed to be the thought of Geralt had, too. No longer a pain in his chest, but a rough spot, something that reminded him of the man every time his brain tripped over it. 

The dreams returned, in spite of the sleeping potions. They’d evened out, no longer dizzying flashes of muddy water and black blood but a roaring hearth and the scent of honey and apples. Warm, comforting dreams, suited to midwinter. Jaskier stopped taking the draughts, and let himself dream. They shifted again, as spring neared, turning restless and, if he was forced to say it, longing. Jaskier didn’t  _ pine _ (but, rather infuriatingly, seemed to catch himself pining regardless.)

Spring brought with it rain, heavy and torrential, swelling the river near Lettenhove nearly to overflowing. Jaskier opened the manor to those who needed it; few accepted his offer, at first, but as the water trickled into their homes, the people trickled into Jaskier’s. It felt good, having the house full of people again. Jax was there, recuperating from a nasty leg wound he’d been dealt in January, and the rest would soon be coming for the monthly family meeting. Things were good, in all honesty. His strange dreams had lessened, and when he lied to himself he could almost forget the witcher. Almost.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> whoooo ladies almost done!


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The walls of Kaer Morhen, as they seemed to do every winter, tightened with each day leading up to spring. The breeze warmed one day, and suddenly Geralt was bumping into other witchers left and right when he’d barely encountered them over the winter. The hearth in the great hall burned too hot, now, and blankets became rather unceremoniously shucked off in the middle of the night. The keep was crawling with pent up, wild energy, petty squabbles erupting left and right.

The walls of Kaer Morhen, as they seemed to do every winter, tightened with each day leading up to spring. The breeze warmed one day, and suddenly Geralt was bumping into other witchers left and right when he’d barely encountered them over the winter. The hearth in the great hall burned too hot, now, and blankets became rather unceremoniously shucked off in the middle of the night. The keep was crawling with pent up, wild energy, petty squabbles erupting left and right. 

By early March, a brave few had trickled out, easing the tension slightly. Geralt, however, felt positively  _ insane _ . His dreams had been filled with lute music, tender and feral and yearning, so much so that the songs would stay with him for days on end, rhythms tapped into tabletops and drummed into thighs. Eskel and Lambert, to their credit, said nothing. The dreams became fewer as the winter drew to a close, the final mid-March snowstorms cleansing the keep of all the dirty brown slush that stubbornly refused to melt.

Geralt left the first day of April. Somehow, he knew, he’d find himself back in Kerack, but whether it would be through the natural course of his hunts or giving in to the urge to ride to Jaskier as fast as he could, well. That was anyone’s guess. 

He surprised himself with his own logic. Making his way to Kerack, even as scantly and quickly as he’d be able to, would require coin. It would be cruel to drive Roach to the point of exhaustion simply to find a man he’d only met once, and he rather didn’t want to show up to Pankratz Manor a bag of weary muscle, just in case. So he hunted, traveling further between jobs than he normally would, yet ensuring that he and Roach were always at the very least fed and (marginally) rested. 

Geralt made it to the Kerack border by June. Suddenly he was terrified; what if Jaskier had forgotten him, died, moved on, hated him? Every mile closer to Lettenhove felt agonizing, the pace all at once too slow and too fast. He found himself lingering in villages, staying a day past his welcome before moving on to the next, and the next. Roach grew antsy, tossing her head and pawing at the ground every time Geralt attempted to stable her. Geralt, too, wished he could toss his head and paw the ground. Not really, but there wasn’t much to hunt in Kerack, and what with all the  _ feelings _ , every nerve in his body thrummed with pent-up energy.  _ Fucking Melitele’s tits. _ He was a witcher, gods damn it, and he should not be afraid of a  _ human _ . No matter how deadly said human may prove to be. 

Resolve shattered, Geralt rode hard for Lettenhove. He’d been maybe a day’s ride out of the city anyway, but if he’d wanted he could’ve stretched it to three. Now a tether in him had snapped, and as rain-scented air whipped past his face, Geralt felt strangely at peace, the need to just  _ go _ finally sated. Witchers didn’t sing unless they were drunk off their asses, as a general rule. Geralt was not at all close to singing, but he had a similar feeling to consuming a few glasses of White Gull. Verging on giddy, holding it together for the sake of his reputation that ceased to exist two glasses ago. 

It had fallen dark by the time he made it to the outskirts of Lettenhove, and he was immediately aware of the, ah, water problem. Roach’s hooves squelched as they picked their way through the town, sweaty and road-weary and ready for a fucking break. Now that he was here, that this was  _ happening _ , Geralt didn’t know how to feel.  _ Insecure _ , his mind supplied, while another, more Vesemir-sounding voice said  _ fuckin’ scared.  _ Neither of which should pertain to witchers, but. Here he was. Face-to-face with a very old, very beautiful oak door, hair both matted with sweat and fluffy with humidity, Roach’s lead loosely clenched in his left hand. 

The door flew open without him knocking, knuckles an inch shy of the wood before a girl, different than the last one Geralt had seen, leaned against the doorframe. Her eyes tracked up and down his leathers, and if witchers could blush, well. Geralt had never felt so  _ judged _ in his entire life. Slowly, the girl grinned, eyes lighting up with, strangely, recognition.

“Jaskier! Your muse is here!”

_ Muse? _

“Did you just say-”

Geralt was interrupted by four other children (young adults, really) crowding into the door. Two more girls and two boys, one of whom sported a rather wicked-looking set of crutches. With a start, he realized he must be looking at Jaskier’s famed network of assassins; he’d known they were young, but  _ Melitele _ . At least two of them were witchers, Cats by the look of them, and all eyed him with varying levels of interest and contempt. Geralt didn’t fidget, but his fingers itched for a knife all the same.  _ Hearing _ about five highly-trained murder-children was one thing; being faced with them felt entirely another. 

They parted as Jaskier shoved through, all leather and lithe limbs, curls flopping about before he raked them back with a careless hand and  _ oh _ . There he was. They stared, for a moment, caught in what Geralt assumed had to be a mutual feeling of  _ oh. It’s you. It’s always been you. _ And then Jaskier was in his arms, face tucked into his (sweaty) neck, and Geralt could feel the other man’s heart hammering into his ribs, and it didn’t matter because they were  _ there _ . 

There were conversations, of course; conversations where Jaskier told Geralt everything he’d bottled up for twenty-seven years, things he’d never spoken aloud now whispered into the witcher’s hair. Conversations about preferences and boundaries and expectations and all the things people expect to fall into place and never do, without intervention. There were bad days, but they grew from them, and Geralt lost his fear of apologizing as Jaskier learned to lean on someone. Eskel and Lambert visited often, wintering at Kaer Morhen and in Lettenhove in turns. They had monthly family dinners, and when Jax brought home a five-year-old girl, an orphan, they didn’t hesitate to take her in. The manor began to fill, children of all ages and backgrounds flooding in to be trained by a witcher in foraging and an assassin in music. Kissing Jaskier still felt like wrapping his teeth around pavement, an all-encompassing jolt of adrenaline and surprise, and yet Geralt knew he wouldn't give it up for the world.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> oh boy! we made it!!! thank you thank you thank you guys <3

**Author's Note:**

> once again, i wrote this with no fucking clue where it was gonna go  
> chapter one.... babey..... but this time i actually have all the chapters written out!! it will finish!! i shan't abandon it!!!!  
> as always, [oddconstellation](https://archiveofourown.org/users/anoddconstellationofthoughts) is my biggest supporter (go check out [a throat full of teeth](https://archiveofourown.org/works/24261646/chapters/58469800) if you crave some incredibly angsty and happy witcher fic)  
> come find me on [tumblr](https://astaticworld.tumblr.com/) where i exclusively look at cute witcher fanart  
> much love to you all <3


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